


price of admission

by krete



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Incredible smugness on Elias' part, Jon being a sweaty mess constantly, Jon gets stronger Archivist powers, M/M, Post-Season/Series 03 AU, Praise Kink, Prison Visit, Subspace, The Bureaucratic Imperative of Sitting On Your Ass And Letting Shit Come To You, elias monologues for fun and sport, i guess, sexy questioning whether youre losing your humanity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:33:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22111120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krete/pseuds/krete
Summary: Jon gets more Archivist powers, is isolated by his coworkers, and runs back into the mouth of the devil. Post S3 AU.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 10
Kudos: 205





	price of admission

**Author's Note:**

> No I have not yet listened to season 4. pls be nice

When Jon finally wakes up, it is to the symphony of medical equipment hooked up to him, obtrusive and brash in their beeping and humming, better than any alarm clock. He _knows_ , in that instant, that it’s been six months since he last opened his eyes. The memory of the Unknowing still flickers dimly in his mind, but at the moment, nothing seems further from the depersonalizing haze of _not-knowing_ that had twisted his mind and left him defenseless. He gazes up at the ceiling above his hospital bed, almost afraid to move, afraid to take in more information past the off-white blankness of the ceiling and the rhythmic beeps of the machinery.

A nurse walks in to take his vitals. Instinctively, Jon turns his head to meet her eyes, and screams as he _knows_ her, information flooding his mind from just a single glance, _favorite color_ mixed in with _greatest fear_ , _today’s breakfast_ intertwined with _childhood trauma_ , his brain parsing and compartmentalizing until it gives up. Jon stops screaming, stops everything entirely, and slips back into unconsciousness, welcoming the recurring nightmares of people already known like the comfort of a soft blanket.

It takes three more tries and the better part of a day until he can be fully roused without being immediately overwhelmed with the backstories of people he had no desire to know in such a way. Finally, the confused and frazzled hospital staff usher in Georgie, who, upon hearing his stuttered and fragmented explanation, immediately blindfolds him with her scarf and drags him out of the hospital. Besides what is apparently the Beholding’s terrifying new gift, it turns out that he is completely fine, with no further physical or mental complications besides a weakness in his muscles that he can’t entirely write off as having been there all along. But, when out of a sudden compulsion he paws at his wrist, then his neck, then his chest, he silently notes that his heart doesn’t seem to be beating at all.

\--

Jon returns to work, because really, at this point, what else can he do? He keeps Georgie’s scarf wrapped around his eyes because as stupid as the solution was, covering his sight did in fact prevent him from absorbing information from people he might accidentally glance at.

He’d spent the night at Georgie’s. She’d insisted on looking over him, at least for the night, although he hated imposing himself and the danger that followed him again and again upon her. When he woke up the next day, he knew what he needed, and he knew that he could find it in the Archives, easy as picking out milk from his fridge. Despite Georgie’s protests, she finally tersely agreed to drive Jon to the Institute, if only because she was certain that he would misstep on the Tube and get hit by a train car.

When he arrives, it’s easy to run past the lobby and up a flight of stairs and through a hallway, moving fast enough to ignore the stares of other employees who are, no doubt, wondering why the Head Archivist was running by with a scarf over his eyes as if he hadn’t been in a coma for the last half-year. The route to Elias’ office comes to him as clearly as if his eyes were uncovered, and he bursts through the door without knocking; no doubt the smug bastard had known the second that he’d woken up, if not the second that Jon would come up to yell at him.

“Elias,” Jon pants, working himself up for a full-blown confrontation.

“J-Jon?” The familiar voice of Martin squeaks out, and it surprises him enough that he rips the scarf off of his face. Martin is standing in front of Elias’ imposing oak wood desk, looking almost exactly how Jon remembers him, sans maybe the constant cup of tea in his hands. With the eye contact, Jon _knows_ suddenly a trickle of nasty new facts about Martin that he hadn’t known before, but it's only enough to give him a twinge of a headache.

Then, he turns to look at Elias, and finds something new entirely. He’s sent stumbling backwards with the sheer unfamiliarity, even before the information starts filtering into his head. The bearded, middle-aged man sitting where Elias should be gives only a bewildered stare before Jon _knows_ that he is Peter Lukas, a member of the Lukas dynasty, avatar of the Lonely, captain of the _Tundra_ , insufferable prick, and a million other little tidbits before his mind is swallowed by radio static and he falls to the ground, unconscious again.

When he comes to, Martin is holding that cup of tea in his hands and offering it to him. He’s propped up on the couch in Elias’ office, and his head is still spinning madly. _It’s not really his office anymore_ , he thinks as he nods in thanks towards Martin for the tea and looks up to confront this new adversary.

“Some trick you have, Archivist,” Peter grumbles as he stares down at Jon, his grey eyes as dull and glassy as an endless sea. “You’re not gonna pry my secrets out of me that easily, but it looks like you don’t really want them, anyways.”

“Elias,” Jon gasps out again, fingers trembling as he barely manages to hold his cup without spilling its contents. “Where is he?”

“He’s in _prison_ ,” bites out Martin, and Jon turns towards him to listen. “He doesn’t even deserve that, not really.”

“So it worked? The plot, with the tapes…and burning the statements…”

Martin nods, face turning slightly pale, and Jon doesn’t need to use his newfound powers to know that Elias’ retribution towards Martin was swift and devastating. Peter laughs, and Martin shoots him a weary look that does nothing to stop his hearty chuckle.

“If you knew about Martin’s plot, then why’re you so shocked to see Elias gone?” Peter says, clearly taking enjoyment in the realization that the Archivist was just one new subordinate to harass.

“I…” Jon’s thoughts immediately slide to the shameful truth, which is that he’d gone running to Elias because he _wanted_ him to be there. Even after dozens of fruitless attempts to get the man to help him, it was still Elias that he ran to whenever his humanity faltered, Elias’ praise that he’d become accustomed to. “Just a mistake,” he mumbles.

Martin looks slightly hurt by this; he’s concluded that Jon’s hesitation meant that he didn’t think Martin’s efforts would be successful. Just another way that he’s ended up insulting Martin, topping off a pile of misgivings and distrust that have become a wall between them. As glad as Martin seems to be that Jon’s survived the Unknowing, he’s caught himself and gone distant. He fumbles with the edge of his sweater, turning his gaze away from Jon and into the shaking surface of the tea. “Tim and Daisy…” he begins to say, but he doesn’t have to finish for Jon to understand what’s happened to them.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, but it’s not enough. It’s barely even his apology to make, there wasn’t much he could’ve done to save their vengeful souls, but he still feels the burden of their deaths come crashing down upon him. The emotional weight chokes him, and Martin at the very least seems to understand, and gives him a brief hug.

“Pleasure to have you back, Archivist,” Peter abruptly cuts in. “I’d offer you paid leave, but you’ve been under for a long time, hmm? I bet you’re absolutely itching to get back to work.” The look in his eyes makes it clear that he’s somewhat familiar with the eccentricities that come with being an avatar of the Beholding. A shiver runs down his back as he realizes that he can’t really avoid that title anymore. It still hurts a little to look directly at Peter, as his mind immediately leaps to make contact with his, which, for its own part, valiantly resists being known.

He mutters an agreement, gets up from the couch, and walks out of the office that he no longer feels familiar with. Before he closes the door behind him, he shoots a final glance at Martin, just to see that he’s already turned around to resume his conversation with Peter.

\--

Jon manages to find his way down to the Archives in the same fashion that he’d made his way up, blindfold tied once more around his face. He trips on the final step of the staircase in his haste, and accepts that the bruise on his leg is worth the mental strain of trying to avoid eye contact with everyone he passes. He sneaks into his office and takes off his scarf-blindfold to find it in complete disarray, but he bypasses the mess in order to scrounge up an unread statement and a tape recorder. Even the presence of scattered papers around him feel overwhelming, words floating off the pages and begging to be spoken aloud. He expects to be interrupted, news of his return must’ve filtered back to his other assistants by now, but he doesn’t put the blindfold back on as he reads the statement, somehow intuiting that even the Beholding wouldn’t let him read with his eyes covered.

He sits on the floor of his office, legs crossed. After reading one statement, he feels much better, his head clearer than it has been since he woke up. He pushes himself and tries to read a second one, but before he can begin, the interruption arrives.

“ _You_ ,” the familiar voice curls with rage, and Jon looks up to see Melanie stalking towards him, stepping carelessly through scattered paper and books. Basira follows behind, looking relieved that Jon is alive, but doing nothing to stop Melanie on her warpath. “Why are _you_ back?” she snarls, and Jon scrabbles backwards as Melanie’s bitter memories and Basira’s weary ones wash over him in unrelenting waves. He closes his eyes, but it’s already too late, he knows Melanie’s renewed hatred of the Institute and Basira’s pain of losing Daisy, neither of which is enough to knock him out again, fortunately.

“I...I’m sorry,” Jon gasps out as Melanie grasps at his lapels and drags him upwards.

“You-- you fucking freak, it’s your fault, isn’t it? You’re not dead, and those _things_ keep attacking us, and Elias isn’t dead either, but he’s far away, so it has to be you.” Jon knows that she’s talking about the Entities, allies of the Stranger and all who want to see the Beholding’s safehold threatened, coming for the Institute ever since they’d stopped the Unknowing. He knows, but Melanie’s sheer anger rattles him, and he can barely start defending himself through a series of stuttered half-sentences before Basira steps in.

“Melanie, stop. He’s been asleep too, it’s not his fault,” Basira says, but she’s more resigned, willing to allow Melanie to let off some steam, although it conflicts her to see Jon be threatened like this.

“Bullshit. He’s back, and now it’s just going to get worse. He’s--he’s different, he’s a part of _it_ ,” Melanie spits.

“Please, let him go.” Basira says quietly, a hand on Melanie’s shoulder. There’s a deep part of Basira, a part that Jon now knows about, that wants something to happen, someone to answer for Daisy’s death. And maybe Jon’s not that person, but she knows something’s off about him too, and just like with Martin, he can feel the walls go up between them. Melanie had the courtesy to put spikes on top of her walls, walls that had already been high before any of this happened, and now they were nigh insurmountable. Melanie drops Jon on top of his tape recorder, the sharp edges of it poking into his back as he lands hard.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, but Melanie’s already gone.

“She’s had a hard time of it lately,” says Basira, kneeling down next to him. “After the Unknowing and Elias’ departure...things haven’t been going well, especially for her.”

“I know,” Jon says, wincing as he realizes how dismissive it sounds. “I mean, I really do know. She’s right. I’m a part of it. The Beholding. And I knew what happened just by looking at her.”

“Oh,” Basira picks up the scarf from the floor and hands it to him. “That explains the blindfold, I guess.”

Jon gives a hollow laugh and holds the scarf in his lap, fingers worrying at the edges of the yarn as they sit in uncomfortable silence for a moment.

“Jon,” Basira starts hesitantly, as if she doesn’t want to know how he’ll respond. “What’s going to happen?”

In that instant, Jon feels entirely unmoored, his purpose during the last couple of months before the Unknowing silently receding into the past, and no new purpose rising to meet the future. He’d have to deal with the other entities, but there were so many and he had no idea where to begin. He feels all of his connections pull further and further away from him, stretching out into the distance as he stands still.

“I...I don’t know.” he confesses, quietly. “I have no idea.”

\--

The next couple of weeks pass in a blur of sensory overload, even though he stays in the Institute for the most part, too nervous or exhausted to confront whatever’s happened to his own flat, whether a thick layer of dust has settled over it that will take days to fully clean or it’s been leased out entirely in his absence. He makes multiple attempts to pass through crowded hallways, trying to build up his resilience, but it drains him enough to make him collapse on the cot in the backroom for the rest of the day. People are still lining up to give their statements, and he tries to do his job with a constant, pounding headache and a weariness that goes straight to his bones. Meeting with Peter is a brief reprieve, because he at least is too deep in the arms of his own Entity that his mind is more resilient to opening up at a single glance. But he’s almost unbearable to talk to, and not interested at all in concocting a grand master plan for Jon to haplessly follow, as Elias was so fond of doing. He seems to know nothing and is fine with leaving all preparations in the hands of the Archivist. Jon finds himself missing spreadsheets and performance reviews.

And he still has no idea what to do. He records statements and makes notes on the weaknesses of the other Entities, but the feeling of aimlessness never fades. The only one who really interacts with him anymore is Basira, and their conversations are professional, straightforward. He sees Martin sometimes, but evidently the days where he’d fuss over Jon are over. Melanie, he goes out of his way to avoid. Jon’s life becomes the dull throbbing in his head and constantly looking down, away from anything that will set him off again.

It’s desperation, but altogether predictable desperation, that pushes Jon back into Elias’ arms. He flushes with shame at the thought of asking Georgie to drive him to Pentonville, so he chances it and takes the Tube, which results in him nearly passing out twice on the platform when he reflexively looks up at the people sitting across from him. He’s gotten slightly better control over the power in the last couple of weeks, but he still sprints down the sidewalks, eyes glued to his phone’s navigation app, until he finally makes it to the door, flushed and already exhausted. Jon knows that in no way is he mentally ready for a confrontation with Elias, especially after so long, but he can’t turn back now.

After going through all the required checks, Jon is confronted with a receptionist that he has no choice but to make eye contact with. Stars burst behind his eyes, but he stays upright out of sheer stubbornness, breathing hard as he _knows_ Marcie Parker, her fear of the dark, her love for carrot cake, her bewilderment that this wreck of a man in front of her is the only one on their VIP prisoner’s visiting list. Still, she leads him to a separate visiting room, saying something about how Elias had asked for more private accommodations. There would still be a guard stationed, of course, but he would be standing outside. Jon spares a moment to be annoyed at how quickly Elias had gotten the prison guards under his thumb as well; his willingness to remain imprisoned (for now) seemingly the only variable in whether he actually stayed imprisoned.

He’s allowed a moment alone in the stark visitor’s room. It consists of two chairs separated by a table, one camera in the corner, and is altogether too lax for a man who’s murdered at least two people. He stumbles onto one of the chairs. It’s hard and uncomfortable, but it lets him collapse, collect his thoughts as best as he can. It’s nowhere near enough.

Elias is led in the room, the clanking of the handcuffs around his wrists accentuating every step he takes towards him. Jon holds his breath and doesn’t look up, fixing his gaze on the unforgiving steel of the table, certain that if his heart could still beat then it’d be pounding out of his chest. Elias takes his seat opposite Jon, and waits for just a second or two, the intensity of his gaze fixed heavily on him.

“Jon. What a surprise,” Elias says, with all the smugness of the cat who got the cream.

Jon looks up, and almost cries in relief. His powers of Beholding rush at Elias just as insistently as ever, but it takes him only a moment to block off his mind so that Jon remains blissfully _unknowing_ of Elias, just as obtuse and unrelenting with his knowledge as ever. Elias doesn’t seem entirely unaffected; he shivers a little in his seat, eyelids fluttering as he gazes fondly at Jon. Elias still has the air of bureaucratic indifference about him, holding himself elegantly even in the drab prison uniform and handcuffs. His hair is shorn shorter, but no less meticulously groomed. It’s familiar, and Jon can’t help but ache for more of it.

“Oh, Jon,” he’s plainly delighted, something that should disgust Jon to hear, but now it only fills him with a pleasant warmth. “How nicely you’ve grown, even without my guidance.”

“Please,” Jon slumps towards Elias, eyelids heavy and the exhaustion of the day catching up to him, making his mind fuzzy and pliant until he can barely remember why he’s pleading. “Please, I need your help. I can’t...I can’t stop _knowing_. It’s far too much.” The intensity of knowing Marcie still rings through his head, compounding the overall exhaustion of the past few weeks. Experience tells him that Elias will push the baby bird out of his nest and take joy in watching him plummet towards the ground, but still he begs for help.

He hears the chains of the handcuffs click on top of the table before he feels the cool touch of Elias’ hand on his forehead. The sensation spreads throughout his skin, mitigating the hot flush of his face with a pleasing chill that causes him to shiver slightly as he leans into the touch. Jon was prepared to take as much as possible out of even these small crumbs of affection. He hears the sound of Elias’ indulgent laughter as if muffled as he strokes down his face, running his fingers over Jon’s left cheek. Eventually, the hand recedes, even as Jon tries to chase after it with an involuntary whine.

“Come here,” Elias says, and gently guides Jon into kneeling in the space between Elias’ legs. Jon goes willingly, letting his shaky legs give out as he collapses onto the ground and pushes himself embarrassingly close to Elias. He leans his cheek into Elias’ thigh, breathing deeply into the folds of the cheap prison jumpsuit. And even here, Elias draws it out, unmoving in his contemplation of Jon’s desperation, refusing him any reciprocation for an agonizingly long moment. Jon trembles, the internal conflict between pressing closer and wrenching himself away growing more pressing with every passing second. Finally, Jon hears a click, and the following clanging of metal on metal confirms his suspicion that Elias has unlocked his handcuffs and placed them on the table, who knows how. Before his irritation for the bastard can tip the scale one way or another, Elias reaches down and combs one hand through Jon’s hair.

It’s intensely personal, nearly overwhelming. Carefully, Elias runs his fingers through the tangles, combing through the strands still slightly damp and limp with sweat, seemingly unbothered. As Elias drags his nails lightly back and forth across Jon’s scalp, he lets the tingly sensation burn through his body and briefly arcs his back with a twitch. It’s a different sort of sensory overload, gentle and attentive touches carrying him further and further away from the clutter of his own mind, until his headache fades into the distance. The petting slowly became more regular, predictable and measured strokes that left Jon pliant and numb, anything else that wasn’t the warmth of Elias’ leg against his face and Elias’ hand running through his hair floating away from his consciousness.

“I’m sorry, Jon. My...skill set isn’t really suited to taking away or blocking knowledge. That would be antithetical to the Eye’s domain, don’t you think?” Jon tries to focus his attention on what Elias is saying, but the words slip away, deep into his mind where Jon is sure that he can examine them later, because right now they’re of little importance. “So you’ll have to settle for this for now, although you do seem to be enjoying it.” Elias drags his hand down from his head to rest on his cheek, giving it a gentle stroke before resting his fingertips on Jon’s lips. On instinct, Jon opens his mouth and gently sucks on Elias’ fingers, the taste of salty flesh flooding his mouth a heady reminder of what humanity Elias still had left. With a small gasp of mild surprise, Elias presses his fingers in a little deeper, feeling the hot warmth of Jon’s mouth and the blunt edges of his teeth experimentally before dragging them back out.

“You’ve done so well, Jon. This isn’t some trifling gift, this is something you’ve earned. And you’ve worked so hard to control it, to make it your own.” Jon lets Elias slowly pull him up into his lap, angling him so that Jon’s legs hang off of the side and the rest of his body is cradled in Elias’ embrace, his hand curling possessively around Jon’s waist. Jon places one hand on Elias’ chest, feeling acutely the absence of the ever-present suit lapels that he’d wanted to grab onto. Jon’s mind is still fuzzy, but he’s aware of himself enough to know that he _wants_ to be here, that the closer he presses against Elias’ body, the calmer his mind becomes. The embarrassment at admitting that, even if it was just within his own head, threatens to rise up and choke him, but then Elias is dragging his hand down his back in long strokes, starting from the nub of his first vertebra all the way down to the small of his back, pausing there to press and gently massage the spot until Jon is left trembling and clutching at Elias’ prison jumpsuit. He shoves his head into the space between Elias’ shoulder and neck, skin against skin for that brief stretch of neck and chin, and Jon can feel the tickle of stubble against his cheek. Elias repeats this several times until Jon is practically floating, dreamy and deep inside of a complete and utter calm. They stay like that for what feels like forever, the seconds stretching by like moving through sticky honey. Gradually, Jon lifts his head up, turning to face Elias head-on. He stares for too long at the small imperfections on his face, and finds that he no longer wants to take them to be evidence for Elias’ humanity. It didn’t matter to him anymore.

Jon leans in and captures Elias in a kiss, a light one at first, until Elias starts to reciprocate. It’s surprisingly soft, something that Jon wouldn’t have expected, and his eagerness grows with every new movement. Elias makes a muffled sound against his mouth, and Jon pushes further, wanting to catalogue each sensation as he presses his tongue between his lips and grips at the short hair at the back of Elias’ neck.

Elias is the one to finally break away, but he lowers his lips down to the side of Jon’s neck, giving an experimental lick before he leans forward and gently bites down, sucking and rolling the skin between his teeth as Jon moans helplessly above him, pulling away only when he’s certain that he’s left an unavoidable red mark on his skin. He gives Jon a final light kiss before he pulls Jon back into position, holding Jon by the base of his neck and curling his fingers around errant strands of hair.

Eventually the fuzzy, floaty sensation ebbs and fades away, and Jon comes back to himself, still glowing with warmth and comfort but strong enough to feel like he can stand on his own. He slips off of Elias’ lap and adjusts his clothes as Elias busies himself with putting his handcuffs back on. Jon presses a finger to the side of his neck, experimentally pressing down on the mark that Elias left on him. Again, the waves of shame and embarrassment threaten to overtake him, but Jon is struck by how reassuring it feels, like a promise etched on skin.

Elias catches him in the act and smiles, and he walks over to where Jon is standing so that he can curl one hand around Jon’s waist again.

“Remember, Jon, that message I left for you. The relationships we have, the connections we make, eventually they will all fade, and all that will need to remain is what you have seen of them, and what you have _known_ of them. They are nothing more than means to an end.” The words carve deeper into him than they did the first time, and Jon feels more acutely than ever the absence of anyone else he can turn to.

“And you? Are you also...a means to an end?” Jon says, no compulsion laced in his voice but knowing full well that Elias will answer anyways.

“Well, I suppose in one regard you could consider me so, but...I am also watching you, just as intently. Until one of us finally perishes, rest assured that the other will be watching, and _knowing_ , up to the very end.”

The question that Jon had been meaning to ask since the very beginning still lingers on the tip of his tongue, but in the end, he finds that he doesn’t need to ask it. The answer, after all, is very simple.

“Alright, Elias. I’ll keep watching.”

**Author's Note:**

> its too tender far far too tender by far, it was tender
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/igixri)


End file.
